CROSSED PATHS
by Vanessa Sgroi
Summary: On a wintery night, Sam and Dean Winchester by sheer happenstance cross paths with two stranded Special Agents from NCIS. Much to the brothers' surprise, they discover they actually have some things in common.
1. Good Samaritans

This story is for Swellison. She was my second high bid in the SupportStacie auction from last April. She graciously matched the high bid and asked me to write a Supernatural/NCIS crossover story. I thank her for her infinite patience. I was going to do this all in one shot, but I changed my mind and decided to post it in a couple of parts. Writing has been particularly hard lately, and I just really felt the need to get something out there.

Hope this lives up to expectations!

Enjoy!

Ness

_All standard disclaimers apply. I own nothing related to either Supernatural or NCIS._

* * *

**Crossed Paths**

**By: Vanessa Sgroi**

"What's the town we're looking for, Sam? Cesspool?"

Sam Winchester snorted. "Drestpul, Dean. Drestpul, Virginia. We shouldn't be too far away now."

"Good. 'Cause I can't take anymore driving in this weather." Dean's fingers were tightly clenched around the steering wheel hard enough to bleach his knuckles white. His gaze was focused intently on the sheets of rain obscuring the dark road in front of them. It was just cold enough that the rain was changing to sleet trending to wet snow. Being Virginia though, Mother Nature could quite make up her mind so the rain, sleet, and snow alternated, making for a tense and slippery ride. Dean's shoulders were tight and a headache lurked behind his eyes. He would've rubbed his temples wearily but didn't want to take a hand off the wheel. As if to prove his caution justified, the Impala hit a patch of black ice and fishtailed. He corrected her course with a grunt.

A few seconds later, Sam exclaimed, "Hey, Dean, look. There's a car broken down by the side of the road."

"And?"

"And we have to stop. See if we can help."

"I knew you were going to say that." In truth, Dean would've pulled over anyway, but he couldn't do so without some requisite crabbiness. It was expected of him. He passed the car in question, eased the Impala over to the side of the road, and backed up carefully until they were a few feet away from the other vehicle. "You might as well stay here." Dean opened his door and eased out into the night, wincing as icy needles pricked his face. He rolled his eyes in mock consternation when he heard the passenger door squeal as Sam exited. _Knew he wouldn't listen._ To be fair, it was good to know Sam had his back just in case this situation went south. The pair approached the man they saw hunched under the hood.

"Hey," Dean called out, "looks like you've run into some trouble here. Need some help?"

Tony DiNozzo straightened and squinted at the two strangers. Cop instinct automatically kicked in as he eyed them both. Sensing no immediate threat, Tony muttered, "Yeah. Damn thing made a popping noise, sputtered and died as I was pulling over to the shoulder."

"Want me to take a look?" offered Dean, "I'm pretty good with cars."

"Yeah, I am too actually. Which is why this really pisses me off. I honestly think this piece of crap is DOA. But if you wanna take a look, be my guest."

"Got a flashlight?"

"I did. Until it died on me just before you pulled up."

"I've got one. Let me grab it." Dean grabbed a flashlight from the Impala's trunk and hurried back to the disabled vehicle. After a few minutes of poking around and not-so-hopeful grunting, he straightened and looked at Tony. "I think you're right, it's pretty much DOA." Dean looked up when the passenger side door opened and another man got out, joining them in front of the car.

"Still no luck, Tony."

A strong gust of sleet-laden wind twisted around them, pinging against glass and metal. All four men shivered hard and hunched forward against the onslaught.

"I figured as much," muttered Tony, replying to both Dean and Tim simultaneously. "I don't suppose either of you can get a cell signal?" Tony gestured to the younger man who'd just joined them. "McGee and I both have been trying for a while now."

Both brothers pulled their cells from their coat pockets and checked.

Dean shrugged. "Nope."

Sam nodded. "Same here."

Tony ran a hand down his face and through his hair, slicking away the moisture gathering there. "Great. Crappy ending to a crappy day."

"Hey, listen," said Sam, "we're heading into Drestpul. We can give you a ride if you want." The younger Winchester ignored the quick, fiery glare Dean sent in his direction.

DiNozzo's eyes widened in appreciation. "Hey, thanks! Sure beats spending the night freezing our asses off in the car. Right, McGoo?"

"Um, well, I…" Tim eyed the two strangers and glanced at Tony who gave an almost imperceptible nod, putting the younger agent at ease. "Yeah, that'd be great. Maybe we can find a phone then."

While Tony lowered the hood, McGee grabbed their black backpacks, his laptop case, and the keys from the car, tossing Tony's to him along with the keys. The four men headed for the Impala.

Getting his first good look at the sleek, classic car these guys had arrived in, Tony whistled appreciatively. "Oh, man, will you look at this car? A '67 Impala!" DiNozzo caressed the rear quarter panel with two fingers, leaving two runners in the slush. Shiny black paint momentarily gleamed. "A 427 ci/390 horsepower engine. Zero to 60 in 8.4 seconds. Runs the quarter mile in 15.8 seconds at 86.5 miles per hour!"

Dean was impressed and found himself relaxing a bit. He liked this Tony guy already. "So you weren't kidding. You _do_ know something about cars." He smiled. "She's a beauty, isn't she?"

"She is at that."

As they all gratefully slid into the car, Tony and Tim in the back and Sam and Dean in their respective seats in the front, Dean said, "Sorry it's a little messy back there. Me and my brother, Sam," he paused and pointed, "we spend a lot of time on the road. I'm Dean, by the way."

"Tony DiNozzo."

"Timothy McGee."

Introductions made all around, Dean cranked the heat up and eased the car back out onto the increasingly slick road.

"So," started Tim, looking between the two brothers in the front seat, "you guys are on the road a lot, huh? What is it that you do?"

It was Sam who answered. "We're…investigators. Private investigators. Mostly we find…things for people."

"Yeah, you know," interjected Dean, "like lost wedding rings, heirlooms. Sometimes we're even asked to find people. It's kinda like our family business." Dean eyed Tony and Tim in the rearview mirror, taking in their suits and trench coats. "So, what about the two of you? Lemme guess—insurance salesmen? Mormon missionaries?"

Tony laughed. "Nah. Actually, we're Federal agents." His shrewd gaze didn't miss the ever-so-slight tensing of Dean's shoulders or the way it was mirrored in Sam's profile.

TBC…


	2. Shelter

Okay, so I thought it would be finished in two parts but I was wrong. :-) I hope no one is minding the buddy bonding storyline.

* * *

The big car suddenly slid on a patch of black ice, its rear end veering sharply to the right. Dean swore and steered into the slide. After a few tense seconds, the Impala's tires gripped the pavement, and it was again traveling straight forward.

"Shitty roads," he growled. Dean's gaze sought Tony's via the rearview mirror. Green met green. "So, you guys are Feds, huh? Never met real FBI agents before. Must be a cool job." The hunter's face was open and honest, his eyes clear, not a shadow dancing anywhere.

"Not FBI. NCIS. It stands for Naval…"

"…Criminal Investigative Service," finished Sam as he turned his head to look in the backseat. "I've seen a few documentaries on you guys. So basically…Navy cops."

"To put it in its most simplistic terms, yes." There was a slight edge to Tony's voice.

Sam looked abashed. "Sorry. I didn't mean that as an insult."

"No problem. We get that all the time. Don't we, Probie?"

"Yeah, actually…we do."

The car was quiet as Dean navigated the increasingly slippery road, crossing into the outskirts of Drestpul some ten to twelve minutes later. One of the first buildings they passed was the nondescript Southern Comfort Motel; its 'No Vacancy' sign blinking at them tauntingly. Dean drove into the heart of downtown proper, which basically consisted of two crossroads and no more than two dozen or so buildings. Unfortunately, it appeared that everything was closed, whether because the town routinely rolled up the sidewalks by 8 o'clock at night or because of the horrible weather was hard to say.

"Well, this sure isn't looking promising," Dean muttered, leaning forward to peer through the mess slapping into the Impala's windows. The wind had picked up and was buffeting against the gleaming black car. "You guys see anything open?"

As the car crept forward, a course of disheartened "no's" filled the interior.

"Great. And I'm starving too," Dean's stomach growled just to prove his point.

"Yeah," Tony agreed and rubbed his stomach, "come to think of it, I could eat."

McGee snorted softly. "You always can eat."

"Hey, just because I have a heightened appreciation for good food…"

"Wait!" called Sam, interrupting DiNozzo's pithy reply to his partner, "Dean, I think I see something up there on the left. At least it looks like some lights are on inside."

As they approached, Dean spied the flickering green sign in the window of a small, unassuming two-story building announcing to all "Bob's Bar". Soft light glowed softly from within even if the place looked all but deserted. "Well, would you look at that? You done good, Sammy boy." Dean drove a little ways past the bar, carefully made a U-turn, then parked in an angled space in front of Bob's Bar. After flexing his fingers, stiff from gripping the steering wheel so tightly, he turned off the ignition with a sigh of relief.

The four men gratefully scrambled from inside and headed for the bar and its promise of both warmth and sustenance. They crossed the threshold to find a surprising cozy space rather than the dive expected. A fireplace on the back wall crackled with a small fire, the tang of wood smoke hanging heavy in the air. To the left of the fireplace was a small alcove where a pool table stood on a gleaming slate floor and a dart board dominated one wall. The middle of the room contained a few booths along the front wall and several tables and chairs scattered in front of the fireplace. The highly-polished bar itself was to the right of the entrance. Behind it sat an elderly man in a black-and-red checked flannel shirt who was watching a television suspended in the far corner. He looked over at them as they entered, eyed them up and down, while keeping a hand under the bar.

"Well now, if it isn't visitors to my fine establishment."

"Man, are we glad to see you open," offered Dean, brushing slushy pellets off his bare head, "Nothing else around here is."

"Eh. That's Drestpul for you. Even without the dreadful weather. I live right upstairs—why not keep things goin' for a bit down here I say. Got my regulars but they'll not be in tonight, I expect."

"You must be Bob," Tony said with a smile.

"Sure enough ain't. Hasn't been a Bob here for some twenty years or more. I'm Granger. Granger Thomas."

"Sooo, if there's no Bob—why _Bob's_ Bar?" queried McGee with a raised eyebrow and a jut of his chin. He eased down on a bar stool as the three other men with him were doing.

The barkeep smiled. "'Cause, young'un, it rolls off the tongue a helluva lot easier than Granger, don't y'all think?"

There were nods of agreement all around.

"So what can I get you fellas?"

"Don't know about those three," muttered Dean, "but I sure could use a beer."

"One beer," Granger pointed at Dean while his gaze swept across the other three young men who all nodded, "four beers comin' right up." He served them their drinks moments later.

Dean took a long draught and swiped at the small foam mustache left behind with the back of his hand. "Ah, that's better."

A flurry of gunfire on the television drew everyone's attention.

"A World War Two flick, huh?" observed Tony, "I love those."

"Documentary. Served in the tail end of WW Two. If I look close enough, I can just catch a glimpse of myself in here—," Granger gestured to the television screen. "a young, fresh-faced Marine. Private First Class."

"Really?" interjected Sam, "You're in the documentary?"

Granger shrugged and smiled. "For all of about twenty seconds. So can I get you fellas anything else?"

Dean brightened. "Any chance we can get some food?"

"Well, I sent my cook, Clarinda, home but I think I can rustle you up some simple fare from the kitchen. Burgers or sandwiches. I think Clarinda even left some of her Potato Soup in the fridge back there. She's always tryin' to get me to eat more."

Sam forehead wrinkled in a worried frown. "You're sure it's no trouble?"

Granger looked at him and shook his head. "Boy, I'm old, but I sure as heck ain't dead."

Sam leaned close to Dean and whispered, "He remind you of anyone?"

"Yeah," Dean laughed, "maybe they're distant relatives."

Dean and Tony both asked for the burgers with extra onions while Sam and Tim went for the soup and sandwiches.

"Why don't y'all take off your coats and get comfortable at one of them tables over there by the fire. It won't take me long to rustle up your dinner."

Granger started to shuffle away but was stopped by Tony. "Mr. Thomas?"

"Granger."

"Granger, do you have a phone I can use?"

"'course I do. Ain't gonna do you the least bit of good though."

"Why's that?"

"Phones are out. Always happens when we get a spell of weather like this. I'd expect the electricity'll go too at some point."

DiNozzo pulled out his cell phone on the off chance he'd have better luck here than he did out by the side of the road.

"Those contraptions won't do y'all any good either, I'm afraid. We don't get them signals too well here in town." He continued his slow trek toward the kitchen.

The elderly man was right. The screen on Tony's cell read 'No Service'. Flipping it closed, he dejectedly shoved it back in his pocket. "Man, Gibbs is gonna kill me—us—but mostly _me_ 'cause I was driving, when we don't make it back with the evidence."

Dean looked at the NCIS agent and frowned. "Gibbs?" Dean hesitated, "That wouldn't happen to be Leroy Jethro Gibbs, would it?"

Surprised, Tony locked his gaze on the man next to him. "Yeah, actually, that's exactly who it happens to be. So here's a question for you—how do you know our boss?"

TBC…


	3. Connections

This is a really, really short update, but I wanted to get something up before I head off to Chicago for ChicagoCon (woo hoo!) later this week. I've taken a bit of poetic license with a few facts in this chapter and truly hope it jives for everyone.

Despite its brevity please, please enjoy.

Vanessa

* * *

Dean picked up his mug and took a long drink of the cold brew as he moved to a table. He sat the mug down, shrugged out of his coat, and settled in one of the chairs. After waiting for the others to do the same, Dean spoke. "I don't. But my—our—dad did." He licked his lips and studied DiNozzo intently. "He mentions a Leroy Jethro Gibbs in his journal. Helped him out with a job once."

Sam piped up. "I remember reading that, I think. Sometime late 2003, right?"

Dean nodded. "Yeah."

"So let me get this straight, Gibbs helped your dad with a case—some investigation? Doesn't sound like Gibbs."

"No," Dean waggled a corrective finger, "My dad helped this Gibbs guy with an investigation."

"Now that really doesn't sound like Gibbs."

Dean shrugged and rubbed a hand over his face. "What can I tell you? My dad scribbled a few notes about it. Then made a point of saying we could absolutely trust this guy. Maybe 'cause they were both Marines. Semper Fi and all that."

"Wait a minute…" Tony narrowed his eyes and thoughtfully studied first Sam then Dean. "Winchester," he breathed. "John Winchester."

Both brothers tensed in their seats. Dean's face immediately slipping into an expressionless mask as he began to plot their escape, weather be damned. His fingers twitched, and he rose slightly from his chair intending to pull his Colt from its resting place in the small of his back.

Tony's fingers closed around his wrist before he could.

Dean silently cursed himself for letting his guard down even slightly. It was, and always had been, a big Winchester no-no.

"Relax…" Tony's fingers tightened ever so slightly, "and tell your kid brother he can put away the gun he has pointed at me under the table."

In the silence that followed, the fire in the fireplace popped loudly and sizzled. A frenzy of sparks chased each other up the chimney. DiNozzo saw Dean's gaze cut to the fire and his eyes flickered with miasma of abject fear and desolation for a split second. He was going to comment when Dean twitched, resettled in his seat, and sent his brother a silent command with another quick shift of his now-clear eyes.

The older Winchester tugged lightly on the arm DiNozzo still held captive, surprised when the Fed let go. He took a drink before saying, "So you know about our dad?"

Tony tipped his chin forward. "And you and Sam."

"Boy, that boss of yours sure is a talkative guy, isn't he?"

Both DiNozzo and McGee snorted. "Actually," answered Tony, "I like to refer to him as a functional mute."

"Yet you guys know all about us Winchesters. Imagine that."

"No. _**I**_ know _**all**_ about you Winchesters. McGee here only knows the names and to come to Gibbs should he ever run across them in any manner."

"So what now?" muttered Sam bitterly, "Lemme guess—we're under arrest."

Tony looked at the younger man, his expression grave for a few moments then a grin split his face. "Nope."

Dean cut in. "I don't get it. If you know all about us, then as a Fed, you know we're fugitives. Even though the charges are basically a bunch of bogus bullshit."

Now it was Tony's turn to take a drink of his beer before responding. He could feel two—no, three—pairs of eyes on him, each pair filled with differing measures of inquiry. He licked foam off his upper lip and raised an eyebrow.

"What charges?"

"You know, you Feds are all alike. You like mind games, don't you? Like a cat playing with its prey just before he kills it." Dean spit out, jaw clenched. "Special Agent Henricksen with the FBI was after us for a long couple of years. Chased after us with a whole laundry list of shit. We finally got him to see the truth in the end but…it was too late."

"Ahh yes, FBI Special Agent Victor Henricksen. Killed in that explosion. Ultimately, too late for him; not too late for you."

Dean frowned. "What do you mean?"

"According to Gibbs, who heard it from someone in the know, Agent Henricksen had just called in a report minutes before the building blew. He'd said he caught the two suspects he was after, but they weren't you two apparently. He made it quite clear that it had been quite an elaborate case of identity theft all along. Going all the way back to St. Louis if not before. Said he got suckered in along with everyone else and fully expected to be disciplined for his folly."

"Identity theft?" Dean's voice was loaded with skepticism. But underneath it all was the thinnest thread of hope. Despite the fact he and Sam were facing Lucifer and the end of the world, it still somehow rankled that they technically remained fugitives.

"So says the official report." DiNozzo's expression turned deadly serious. "See, here's the thing—if I've learned one thing in my life, it's to trust Gibbs…and his infamous gut. Believe me when I tell you, I always trust Gibbs' gut. Don't I, McGee?"

Tim stared at the ceiling as if deep in thought. "Well, there was that one time when…"

Tony smacked him lightly on the back of the head. "I always trust Gibbs' gut. And I know what he told me about the Winchesters even before Henricksen made that final report. I was inclined to believe him even then. So unless you guys do something stupid between now and the time we get out of here—like hit the old man over the head, raid the cash register, and make a run for it—no handcuffs will be wielded."

Any reply the Winchester boys may have had to these developments was derailed as Granger appeared at the table with food. He delivered Sam's and Tim's soup and sandwiches first, shuffled back into the kitchen, and returned a minute later with Dean's and Tony's humongous cheeseburgers.

"You boys need anything else?"

Dean held up his mug and looked around the table. "Another round?" When everyone nodded their acquiescence, he said, "Another round of beers would be awesome."

"You got it, young fella."

Without waiting for their refills to arrive, Dean and Tony dived into their respective cheeseburgers with gusto. The next few seconds were filled with appreciative grunts, groans, and practically orgasmic sighs.

"_Mmpht, good."_

"_Best…I've…mmpht…had."_

Sam and Tim watched on in confoundment if not disgust, spoons hovering over their bowls of soup. Sam jutted his chin at DiNozzo and said, "He always eat like that?"

"Unfortunately, yes." McGee mirrored the chin jut. "How 'bout him?"

"Hate to say it, but…yeah."

TBC…


	4. It's All Geek to Me

Tim ate a heaping spoonful of potato soup and offered up his own groan of pleasure, albeit much more circumspect one than two of his tablemates. "Wow. This is really, really good!" He ate another and allowed his gaze to wander around the bar. "You know, I totally should use this place in my next book."

Sam swallowed his own spoonful of the savory concoction and looked up, "Book?"

Tony paused mid-chew, rolled his eyes, and muttered a garbled, "Oh, here we go."

McGee shot DiNozzo a dirty look before saying, "Yeah. I'm a writer in my spare time. I write mystery novels."

"Yeah," cut in Tony, "he secretly wrote a nifty little novel using all of his hapless co-workers—like ME—as characters. _LJ Tibbs, Agent Tommy, Lisa_…"

"Wait, I know that book," exclaimed Sam, "You wrote 'Deep Six'? _You're_ Thom E. Gemcity?"

McGee's cheeks flushed with both pride and the slight embarrassment he felt when the center of attention as an author. "You read it?"

"Yeah, I did. I liked it."

"So did I," Dean blurted out spontaneously.

Sam turned to his brother in surprise. "Wait—you read it too?" His brother often reminded him that he did indeed read books, but Sam rarely caught him in the act.

Dean shifted in his seat. "Sure, why not? I found it in your duffel bag one day and I was bored. It was a good mystery. Even I didn't guess who the killer was."

The younger Winchester smiled. "I wondered how all my pages got dog-eared." Sam turned his attention back to Tim. "So you're writing a second novel?"

"Well…actually...technically…it's my third. I had to…uh…scrap the second one."

"Really? Why?"

"Someone decided to use it as a template for murder."

"Seriously?"

"Yeah, they—the killer, I mean—engineered it so we'd—Gibbs' team—would pull the case. It was a nightmare."

"Like I've said before, demons I get, people are crazy." Dean declared around a mouthful of burger. He shrugged when McGee and DiNozzo both simply stared at him. Ignoring their curiosity-filled looks, he took a long pull on his beer to wash down the burger.

"Hey, you wanna see the cover and the back cover excerpt? The publisher just sent it to me a couple of weeks ago."

The Winchester brothers looked at each other and answered simultaneously. "Sure, why not."

McGee abandoned his food long enough to grab his laptop from its bag. He sat it on the table and powered up. While it was booting, Tim polished off his sandwich.

"Probie, that's your work computer. Why in the world is your book on there?" Tony didn't really care, he just liked to give Tim shit whenever, wherever, and however he could. Mostly to watch his reaction. McGee didn't disappoint.

Tim rolled his eyes and heaved an aggrieved sigh. "My book's not on this computer, DiNozzo. BUT, I can remote into my computer at home." He tapped a few keys. "If this place has WiFi that is." A couple of seconds later, he smiled. "Hello, home computer. We're in business." A couple of clicks followed before he swung the laptop around to show the Winchesters the proposed cover of his next book.

"Hey, McGemcity, don't be selfish, I wanna see too." DiNozzo grabbed the computer and turned it in his direction. After a quick perusal, Tony muttered, "Yep, another lurid, overly melodramatic cover. _Boot Cut_? What kinda title is that?"

"It's a working title, Tony. It might get changed in the end." Tim elbowed Tony in the side and reclaimed his laptop.

"It should. Something cool like…like…" DiNozzo's eyes locked on Dean. "Something like 'Demons I Get, People Are Crazy'." He smirked, enormously pleased with his own cleverness.

"Wouldn't quite fit the contents there, DiNozzo," dismissed McGee.

"Whatever, McGeekazoid. While you've got that thing up and running, why don't you email Gibbs and let him know what happened and where we are."

"Oooh. Good idea!" Calling up his email program, McGee began furiously typing away. It was a short email, and the junior field agent finished quickly.

"That's a nice set up you've got there," Sam offered around the last bite of his own sandwich. Green-tinged computer envy colored his voice.

"Yeah, this one's pretty nice, but it's nothing compared to what I have at home. I've configured such a sweet system, you wouldn't believe—two terabytes of RAM, two interlocked quad processors, not one but two NVidia graphics cards…"

Sam whistled, impressed.

"Makes playing _Titan: Quest of the King_ a snap."

"You play _Titan: Quest of the King_? Me too. Well, I used to anyway—before life got…complicated."

"You wanna play? Go head-to-head? I mean, if you have a laptop, I can remote you in…"

Grabbing his bag off the floor, Sam pulled out their laptop without hesitation.

Dean listened to the geek-speak chatter and dropped his head into his hands. "Oh God, there are two of them."

Tony too sat in pained silence for a moment. "Tell me about it. One was scary enough, two is just plain…scary."

"I need another beer," muttered Dean.

"Me too."

Dean and Tony stood and moved toward the bar where Granger sat nibbling on a sandwich and watching TV. The two men placed their mugs on the bar and waited for the old man to refill them.

"Thanks, man, you wanna have one on me?" queried Dean.

Granger cocked his head to the side. "Ya know, son, that's the best offer I've had all day. Seein' as I just hafta navigate my way upstairs, I don't think one'll hurt these old bones."

Tony leaned against the bar for a minute before elbowing Dean in the side. "Hey, while those two completely geek out over there, why don't you and I play a nice little game of pool?"

Dean raised an eyebrow and his green eyes lit up. "With a nice little wager on the side?"

"Is there any other way to play?" riposted DiNozzo.

"You any good?"

"Eh, I get by. You?"

"I can hold my own." Dean could barely resist the temptation to rub his hands together in glee.

TBC…


	5. Rack 'Em Up

Dean let his fingers slide up and down his cue stick almost lovingly as he watched Tony line up to make the first break. He found himself liking the Fed, which was a surprise. That didn't stop him though from smirking—at least internally—confident in his ability to hustle some always-needed cash beating the other man at pool. Dean watched as the other man easily sank his first two balls but missed his third shot by a hair.

"Oooh, too bad," cooed Dean, most insincerely. He studied the table for a few moments before stretching out almost full length across the green baize. Tongue anchored between teeth, Dean lined up his cue and thrust just hard enough, breaking out in a grin as balls clicked together precisely as they were supposed to and dropped into their target pockets. His smile grew as he sank his next two, rather tricky, shots.

When Dean missed the next one, a decidedly easier shot than any of the previous three, Tony crowed from across the table, "Man, you totally choked!" which earned him a scowl. DiNozzo glided around the table, surveying, contemplating his next move while tapping his cue stick against the table.

"You gonna shoot or prance around all night?" heckled the older Winchester.

"Bite me."

"Not a chance."

DiNozzo found his opportunity. Leaning forward, he let his shot fly, whooping when the ball dropped.

To Dean's astonishment, Tony went on to beat him rather handily. Despite himself, he was duly impressed. "Dude, you're pretty damn good."

"So are you. Where'd you learn to play?"

"My dad taught me. You?"

"Cop bar in Philly. Spent a lot of time there at one point in my life." Twin shadows of darkness flitted through DiNozzo's green eyes, disappearing in a flash. Tony took a pull on his longneck and chalked his cue, the light of challenge now in his eye. "'Nother game?"

Cocking his head to the side, Dean smirked, gladly accepting the challenge. "Bring it on, Fed, bring it on."

Dean won the next game by a narrow margin. He shook his head, smiled. He was honestly enjoying himself, a rare occurrence. "Hey, Sam," he called out goodnaturedly, "why don't you quit your high-tech geekfest over there and come play a real game?"

"In a minute," Sam called back clearly preoccupied with some intricate computer conundrum.

Knowing his brother as well as he did, Dean mimicked silently, "in a minute" in perfect sync as he rolled his eyes. He swallowed the last of his beer and discarded the bottle on a table. "Rack 'em up."

Tony and Dean were barely into their third game when the lights flickered and went out for a second or two before coming back on. Twin cries of absolute horror from the table near the fireplace signaled the brief interruption of power had decimated the geeks hard-fought computer battle.

"Good," Dean called, straightening from his slouch, "now you can come over here and join us."

With much lamenting over the lost game, Tim and Sam both shut down their computers before joining Tony and Dean at the pool table. They grabbed pool cues and chalked up.

Before any game decisions could be made between the group, Granger shuffled their way with armful of candles. "You boys might want put these around and get 'em lit. Hate to say it, but once our power starts to flicker like that around these parts, it's only a matter of time 'fore it goes out completely." As if to prove his point, the lights dimmed momentarily before brightening to full power once more.

Dean's hunter instincts could not be ignored. His eyes sought out Sam's then he let his gaze wander around the establishment. "You sure this is just from the bad weather?"

Granger eyed Dean up and down before answering. "Ah-yep. Happens all the time when storms roll through. It's worse when there's ice."

Relaxing his shoulders, Dean took the last couple of candles and placed them on a nearby table. He extracted his lighter from his jeans pocket, lit his two then proceeded to light all the rest.

"Mind if I watch?" the old man asked. Seeing nods of acquiescence all around, he sank into a chair. "Used to be pretty good at the game. Can't play anymore 'cause of my arthritis. Love to watch you young'uns play though."

Sam ran a hand through his hair, moved to stand next to his brother, looked between him and DiNozzo. "So you guys gonna finish?"

"Nah, why don't we pair off and start over," Dean suggested.

Tony laughed. "You're just saying that 'cause I'm winning again."

"In your dreams, dude. So—brothers against partners?"

Tony looked at McGee, sizing him up. Doubting his partner's skills at the game of pool and not above attempting to pull a fast one, he answered, "I say we change it up a little bit. You and McGee versus me and Sam. Whatdaya say?"

Dean too had his doubts about Tim McGee, seeing only a geekier—and helluva lot shorter—version of Sam when he looked at the other agent. It didn't matter. As far as he was concerned, it was a win-win situation for the Winchesters no matter which pair one. He grinned. "I say you're on."

Tony racked up the balls and stepped back. "Why don't we let Probie make the break?"

McGee, for his part, looked a little uncertain, sheepish even. He stepped up to the table, fiddled with his cue stick for a moment, cocked his head and studied the balls. Taking a deep breath, he leaned over, lined up his shot then not only broke the triangle but proceeded to run the whole table, leaving the three bystanders, particularly Tony, gaping.

"Holy hell, McGee! Where'd you learn to play pool like that?" stuttered DiNozzo. "Better yet, how come I didn't know about this?"

Tim's self-satisfied grin lit the room. "I learned to play at MIT. And you didn't know about this because you never asked."

"But…"

"It's all a matter of quantum physics," he continued, almost gravely, "quantum physics, engineering, a bit of quantum mechanics, a dash of string theory…"

"You're making that up," Tony accused.

McGee's professorial face stayed in place for another couple of seconds before he laughed. "Yeah, I am. Mostly. It's all about skill and sometimes…a hell of a lot of luck."

Dean smiled and lightly punched McGee in the arm. "Nice." He turned and looked at Tony. "Double or nothing?"

Before Tony could reply, the lights flickered, went off, came on, flickered, and died. This time they remained off. The glow of candlelight took over.

"Well, isn't this romantic," snickered Dean.

TBC…


	6. The Old Guy's Not Kidding

Granger watched the quartet play by candlelight and firelight for a bit before yawning and slowly rising to his feet.

"Well, gentlemen, I do believe I'll take these old bones off to bed."

Dean finished the shot he had lined up before propping the cue stick against the table. "Guess that's our _cue_ to hit the road then." As the others groaned at his poor pun, he swallowed the dregs of his final beer, thunked the bottle down on the table containing all of their discards.

The old man chuckled. "Doubt you boys will be going anywhere tonight."

"Why is that?" Years of suspicion and mistrust added gravel to Dean's deep voice.

"Was watchin' a weather report just before the 'lectricity went out. Got a regular ol' ice storm ragin' out there. Doubt you'd make it far if you could even get out at all."

Dean frowned. "So what're we supposed to do?"

Granger smiled and rubbed a hand over his balding pate. "Well now, I don't have any spare bedrooms or nothin' like that, but I reckon you can all bunk down here for the night. Fireplace should keep it toasty enough."

"You don't mind having four complete strangers here overnight?" Tony raised an eyebrow as he asked the question.

"Nah. Something tells me you're all trustworthy young men. And I've got ol' Bessie's twin, Bennie, next to my bed. Ain't afraid to use him either."

Four quizzical pairs of eyes settled on the old man.

"Bessie—the shotgun I keep under the bar. Got one like it upstairs, and I'm a light sleeper."

The quartet acknowledged his words with varying degrees of bemusement if not outright respect.

DiNozzo grinned. "Well, Mr. Thomas, the good news is McGee," he paused to point at his partner, "McGee and I are NCIS agents." Tony dug out his ID and flashed it. "And these two guys are our friends—we can vouch for them. So you can feel safe for tonight."

"Good to know, Agent…DiNozzo. Got nothing but respect for them folks at NCIS. Now I think I have an extra blanket or two around here you can use, no pillows to go with 'em though."

"We've got some stuff in the trunk I think we can use," offered Dean, "I'll go get it." He shrugged into his coat.

"Need some help?" asked Sam, wrapping his fingers around his own jacket.

The older Winchester shook his head. "Nah, I got it. I'll be right back."

As Dean left to go out to the Impala, Tim made an offer of his own. "Granger, I can get those blankets for you if you'll tell me where they are."

"Thank you, young man. I believe they're upstairs in a closet if I'm not mistaken. Why don't we go up and look?"

Granger and McGee headed upstairs, the stairs creaking under their footfalls, leaving Sam and Tony alone in bar proper.

"It's nice of the old guy to let us stay here, huh?" Tony propped a hip on one of the bar stools.

Sam nodded, his bangs falling forward. He blinked and pushed them back with his hand. "Yeah. Yeah, it really is. Gotta say it beats sleeping in the car in this mess. And it was nice of you to vouch for us."

"Eh, it was nothing."

"We're…uh…we're not really…used to that. People being blatantly nice that is."

"Would you believe me if I told you I know exactly what you mean? From personal experience?"

Surprised, Sam studied the agent closely for a moment. "I believe you." He then nodded. "You're a lot like my brother, I think."

"You mean beyond my mad pool playing skills?"

Before Sam could answer, the door banged open, and Dean staggered back into the bar, arms laden with two duffel bags, two stained and threadbare, but functional, blankets, and a misshapen, battered pillow. He was limping.

Frowning in concern, Sam stepped forward to take some of the burden. "What happened? You okay?"

"I'm fine," Dean grunted, "Slipped on my ass on the damn ice, banged my knee. Dude, the old guy wasn't kidding. It's at least an inch and a half thick out there! We're lucky the car's parked under a slight overhang." He dropped the duffels onto the floor and sank down into a chair, rubbing at his throbbing knee. "Stupid ice," he mumbled.

The return of McGee and Granger to the bar interrupted Dean's weather condemnation. Tim exited the stairway first, grinning. "We found three blankets. So with whatever you guys have, we should be set. Kinda looks like we're having a slumber party." Three pairs of eyes locked on him.

"Slumber party? Attended a lot of those, huh McGirly?" teased Tony.

Tim felt his cheeks warm. "No! But my little sister sure had a lot of them."

"And you felt left out, right?" continued DiNozzo.

"Nooooo. Actually," McGee's mouth split into a wide grin, "I was usually the center of attention at them. Most of Sara's friends had a crush on me."

"Really?" Tony's brows rose toward his hairline. "Hey, do they really have pillow fights at those things?"

McGee rolled his eyes and dropped the blankets on top of the ones garnered from the Impala's trunk. "I wouldn't know. I used to lock myself in my room once they got all giggly and weird."

Granger cackled then said, "If you young gentlemen are all set, I reckon I'm gonna shuffle off to Buffalo—otherwise known as my bedroom."

"You're sure you don't want to stay down here by the fire?" asked Sam.

"No, indeed. I've got two or three blankets of my own piled a-top that soft mattress up there. I'll be just fine. Now, listen, you boys feel free to help yourselves to anything you find in the kitchen if you're so inclined. Anything but Clarinda's pot roasts that is. It's tomorrow's special." Granger gave them a general goodnight wave and headed back upstairs.

"Guess that means we should bunk down for the night," said Dean as he pushed out of the chair. "I can't believe I'm saying this at," he glanced at his watch, "nine-thirty at night." Despite his grumbling, fatigue pulled at his body and mind.

Tony slipped out of his shoes. "It's not like there's much else to do unless we play more pool." Three mumbled negatives squashed that suggestion.

While McGee put out the candles, the rest of the men pushed the tables in front of the fireplace out of the way and laid out the blankets they'd gathered. Tony picked up the lone pillow and waved it in the air. "Who gets the pillow?"

Dean shrugged. "Why don't we do rock-paper-scissors?"

Dean and Tony went head-to-head first, the former eliminating the latter with ease. Sam took on his older brother next and knocked him out of the running with a huge grin. Sam turned to Tim, counted to three and shot scissors, leaving Tim the victor with his rock. He took the proffered pillow reluctantly, looked at Sam and Dean. "Are you guys sure? I mean—"

Sam interrupted him. "We'll be fine. Dean and I can use our duffel bags as pillows. Tony can use the last blanket."

The group made themselves as comfortable as possible on the floor. Once settled, the flurry of rustling stopped, leaving only the snap and crackle of the fire the only sound. Then Dean spoke, an unfamiliar note of levity in his voice.

"If any of you start with The Walton's goodnight merry-go-round, I'm gonna start throwing punches."

TBC…

* * *

**_A/N: One more to go on this one, I think. Hope everyone has enjoyed the read._**


	7. All Will Be Revealed

A/N: Well, here we are everyone--the last chapter. I sincerely hope you all enjoy. I'm thinking about possibly doing another NCIS/SPN crossover and would love to hear readers' thoughts as to the prospect.

A big giant thank you to all who have read and also to those who left reviews! You guys keep me going.

Vanessa

* * *

Tony laughed out loud before calling out cheekily, "Goodnight, John Boy. Goodnight, McGee, Goodnight, Sam, Goodnight, Dean, Goodnight, Bessie the shotgun…"

"Oh God, he thinks he's a comedian," muttered Dean, rolling his eyes.

At this Tim snorted and said, "Trust me; you don't know the half of it."

"Reminds me of someone else I know," added Sam.

The affronted rejoinder of "Hey, what's that supposed to mean?" came from both Tony and Dean simultaneously.

The good-natured bickering continued for a few minutes before settling into a spirited conversation about television and movies in general. Eventually the quartet grew less animated. Tim was the first to drop off to sleep, lulled by his proximity to the fire. Sam for his part, despite feeling the tug of fatigue, sighed, shifted restlessly, and adjusted his head on his "pillow" before locking his gaze on some selected spot on the ceiling. Dean nudged him with a sock-covered foot.

"Get some sleep, Sammy."

Without looking at his brother Sam muttered, "I will if you will."

"I will." The words were as sincere as Dean could make them.

Tony watched the exchange with interest. Dean's expression was inscrutable, but the agent detected concern etched into his features. After another minute or two, Sam's breathing evened out as he drifted off and Tony spoke, "You worry about him."

Dean glanced sideways at him. "Yeah. Nightmares. Kid's got the weight of the world on his shoulders."

"Something tells me he's not the only one."

A swift flash of desolation chased its way across Dean's face. "What makes you say that?"

"You both have the same…haunted…look about you."

"Heh. Haunted. It fits." Dean's face turned to stone.

After a few minutes of quiet, Tony cleared his throat. "Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"Is all the stuff Gibbs alluded to—when he told me about you guys—is all that stuff true?"

"Depends on what he alluded to."

"Well—you know—that—ghosts—are real. That kinda stuff."

"They are," answered Dean simply.

"C'mon. Seriously?"

"Ghosts. Shades. Poltergeists. Eidolons. You name it. All real."

"So if those are real, what about…vampires?"

"Yep."

"Uh…werewolves?"

"Yeah."

"Man, I can't believe it."

"Dude, there are evil things out there that you could never even imagine."

Curious, DiNozzo responded, "Such as?"

"Shtrigas. Daevas. Skinwalkers." A log popped and crackled loudly in the fireplace. Dean twitched, took a hitched breath, and swallowed audibly. "Demons."

Tony detected a note of loathing in Dean's voice when he uttered that last word. There also seemed to be a hint of terror that convinced DiNozzo there was much, much more to the story. He thought about pursuing it but something held him back. Tony instead went for a bit of humor. "Huh, and I thought some of the perps we take down were freakin' badass." He paused for a beat and cleared his throat. "Didn't mean to bring up some bad stuff. Sorry."

Dean shrugged and shifted restlessly. "Not used to talking about it. Most people don't wanna know or can't deal with it when they do."

"I'm not surprised. Hell, most people don't like to hear about _**I**_ do, let alone what _**you**_ do," Tony sighed, reclined, and pulled the blanket up around his shoulders, "I suppose we should get some sleep, huh?"

"Might as well," Dean made himself as comfortable as possible under his own blanket and closed his eyes. A few minutes later he heard Tony begin to snore softly as he dropped off. Dean laid there listening to the crackle-pop-sizzle of the fire, smelled the faint whiffs of acrid, bitter smoke, watched orange flicker across the backs of his eyelids, and knew he was never farther away from restful sleep.

_(NCIS) (NCIS) (NCIS)_

Sometime later DiNozzo came awake with a start. He stayed still for a moment listening, wondering what had awakened him. A glance to his right revealed Dean's spot to be empty. Rising up on his elbows, Tony's gaze roamed around the bar. The puzzle was solved a few seconds later when Dean pushed through the swinging door that lead to the kitchen carrying a giant sandwich in one hand and a glass of milk in the other.

Seeing Tony awake, Dan padded softly across the floor and settled on top of his blanket. He took a bite of sandwich and spoke around the mouthful. "Great sandwich, man. Old dude's got a giant ham out there." He gestured toward the kitchen with his sandwich-laden hand. "Homemade bread too."

They talked of a few inconsequential things, including cars, while Dean finished his midnight snack. When he was done, Dean set aside his empty glass, scrubbed his hands over his face, and stretched back out with a sigh. Finally, strands of sleep began to weave their way through his consciousness. His muscles relaxed and his mind began to drift.

DiNozzo followed suit, reclining and closing his eyes, but he couldn't quit thinking about that delicious-looking ham sandwich Dean had just polished off. After another minute or two, Tony couldn't resist temptation anymore, and he decided to help himself to one.

He stood, grunting softly when his knees popped, and made his way to the kitchen. Tony found the ham front and center in the refrigerator; the homemade herbed bread wrapped neatly on the counter. After finding a knife, he sliced off a sliver of ham and popped it into his mouth, groaning as he savored the smoky, sweet flavor of the roasted meat. _Damn, that's good._ He sliced enough to make a good-sized sandwich.

Tony had just started to assemble his feast when he caught movement out of the corner of his eye. Thinking it was Dean coming back for a second helping, he started to make a sarcastic comment as he turned to look. The words died on his lips. Over near the stove stood a woman—a sweet-faced, matronly woman—in an apron. And he could see right through her. Tony stood frozen in place, a faint but cheerful humming now reaching his ears. The woman turned toward him and smiled but it wasn't until she floated—floated!—closer to him that Tony dropped the knife with a clang and fled back to the bar area.

Bending low but not getting too close, DiNozzo hissed, "Dean! Dean, wake up!"

Hunter's instinct had Dean's eyes snapping open, muscle memory forcing a hand toward where his knife would normally be located. "What? What is it?"

"There's someone in the kitchen!"

"What? Dude, it's probably just the old man," the older Winchester muttered grumpily.

Tony scrubbed a hand over his face. "No, I mean there's some_**thing**_ in the kitchen. Your kind of thing."

"What do you mean?"

"It was a woman. An old woman. But shit, man, I could see right through her!" Tony's voice rose enough on the last couple of words that Sam stirred.

"What's going on?" Sam's voice was tense and alert.

"The fed says there's _our kind of something_ going on in the kitchen," responded Dean. "Guess we should check it out. What was this thing doing?" queried Dean as he rose to his feet and watched Sam do the same.

"I dunno. It looked like she was cooking something. And she was…umm…humming."

"Humming? You mean like a live wire hum?" asked Sam.

"No—she was humming a song." DiNozzo approached McGee, who was still sleeping, nudged him with his foot. "Probie, c'mon, get up!"

"Wha?"

"McGee, c'mon, you don't wanna miss this!"

Responding to the demand in DiNozzo's voice, Tim tossed aside his blanket and wobbled to his feet.

Dean looked at the two men and shook his head. "Uh uh. You guys are staying here."

"Like hell we are!" exclaimed the senior field agent. "Besides, I've already seen it."

"I've no idea what's going on, but I agree with Tony," muttered McGee, "I think."

Dean growled but capitulated. "Fine. Just stay behind me and Sam."

The four men made their way into the kitchen. Just as Tony had said, a matronly woman stood at the stove stirring something in a large pot. She was indeed humming a soft tune. Both she and the pot were transparent.

Tim gaped. "She's…she's…oh shit…she's…"

"…probably a ghost," finished Dean helpfully.

"I dunno, she seems pretty calm, Dean," Sam added, "Maybe a death echo?"

Dean was just about to respond when the spirit swung around and moved toward them. McGee tried to step out of her way but in his haste bumped a stray metal bowl on the counter sending it flying. It hit the floor with a loud clank and spun like a top for a few seconds before settling with a final clang. The quartet focused again on the spirit who now hovered in front of Tim with a reproachful expression on her face.

"Ummm…sorry?" he whispered sheepishly.

The ghost merely smiled softly and brushed by, leaving McGee shivering in her wake.

Granger suddenly burst through the door with Bennie firmly in hand. "WHAT IN TARNATION IS GOING ON DOWN HERE?"

Before anyone could respond, Granger caught sight of the apparition, which was back stirring the pot. His jaw, along with his arms, went slack. "Tildy?"

"You know—knew—her?" asked Dean.

"My wife, Matilda. I don't understand. Tildy passed a few years ago. What…"

Sam cleared his throat. "It looks like your wife decided to…stick around."

"You mean…you mean she's a ghost?"

Both Sam and Dean nodded.

"Why I always joked about her bein' here with me. Would hear her humming or things clinking down here in the middle of the night. Even thought I smelled her perfume a time or two. But I always thought it was just an old man's imagination." The whole time Granger spoke, he watched the ghost of his beloved Matilda as she tended her food.

"Do you want us to take care of her for you?" asked Dean.

"Take care of her?"

The older Winchester shifted from foot to foot. "Uh, yeah, you know we can…uh…help her go into the light…or whatever."

"No, oh no. My dear Tildy, she always said she'd wait for me right here. I'd like to let her be until it's my time to join her." Granger approached the stove and spoke directly to the apparition. "You always were my best girl, Tildy." The ghost turned, smiled, and gently touched the old man's cheek. Then in a blink she was gone. All was quiet and still for a moment or two.

Granger turned to the quartet of strangers who'd so recently entered his life, snuffled and winked, eyes glistening. "Well now, didn't you all give me a gift tonight? I think this calls for a celebration." The old man headed for the bar and pulled out his best bottle of scotch. He waited for them to sit and poured drinks all around. "To Tildy," he toasted. The quartet toasted back.

_(NCIS) (NCIS) (NCIS)_

The next morning dawned sunny but cold. While Sam, with McGee's help, chipped away at the last of the ice glazing the Impala, Dean stowed their duffels in the trunk. When he finished, he turned to find DiNozzo watching him. "So Gibbs is coming to get you?"

"Yep, phones are finally working and the boss is on his way. Knowing how he drives, it won't take him long to get here." Tony reached in his pocket and pulled out one of his business cards. He extended it to Dean. "So, listen, if you ever need anything…just call. I mean it. My cell number is on the back."

Dean accepted the card with a nod and half grin. "Hey, you're not bad…for a Fed." He handed Tony his own much simpler card. "Same goes for you…Tony. McGee too. The first number's mine. The second is Sam's. Call us and we'll come." The hunter slid into the front seat of the Impala and keyed the ignition.

Tony smiled appreciatively at the car's throaty rumble. He and McGee both waved as the classic car carrying its unique occupants accelerated out of the parking lot, made a left, and shot down the road. Its powerful purr fading with distance.

"Man, that is one sweet car," Tony uttered for a final time.

"Still have classic car envy, huh DiNozzo?" Tim teased.

"Hey, it beats your computer nerd envy, McTechie."

_**Fin**_


End file.
